"hearer" poems
"O where are you going?" said reader to rider,
"That valley is fatal when furnaces burn,
Yonder's the midden whose odors will madden,
That gap is the grave where the tall return."
"O do you imagine," said fearer to farer,
"That dusk will delay on your path to the pass,
Your diligent looking discover the lacking
Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?"
"O what was that bird," said horror to hearer,
"Did you see that shape in the twisted trees?
Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly,
The spot on your skin is a shocking disease?"
"Out of this house" ‚ said rider to reader,
"Yours never will" ‚ said farer to fearer,
"They're looking for you" ‚ said hearer to horror,
As he left them there, as he left them there.
5.3k
Addiction what a cruel thing.
To be entangled by the fiery flames of hell.
Oh, how short have we fallen?
I have seen many tumble into the same abyss myself included.
Deep dark pit of despair.
Always making you need to gasp for more air.
Every family has a Judas.
Or one family member may have an addiction, to later pass it on to their siblings.
All my life I have been a doer rather than a hearer.
The Lord is our Shepherd only if I let Him Shepherd me.
As He leads me to the boldness of His merciful love.
Once upon a time, I was at enmity with God.
Carnel mind & all.
Previously owned by the devil now I am a child of the Most High.
Do you know the Shepherd?
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC
*Oh Jehovah
hearer of prayer
For I am but lowly and small
I am only one
of your creations
I am so glad to know you at all
You are more amazing than I could imagine
more beautiful than gold
more divine than the finest diamond
I am grateful to know
Please let
your undeserved kindness
Everything you have said
prove true
Show us what you meant for us,
let your Love shine through
As it is written
So let it be true
Let your will be done on the earth,
let your kingdom come soon*
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
☺☻☺☻
When painters who paint about painting
meet writers who write about writing,
self-conscious redundancy
bordering lunacy
ends in esthetic in-fighting.
These modernists, right about nothing
(mostly nihilists mad about something)
are so lost in the process
they vent all their excess
in metacognition: dull writing.
You poets who muse about musing –
unaware you are reader-abusing,
provide a terrific
verbose soporific,
yet not of the hearer’s own choosing…
I long for some righteous verbosity –
but I’m stifled by all the pomposity.
This dull erudition,
“sub-metacognition”,
is but an artistic atrocity.
You thinkers who think about thinking
drag my spirit far lower than sinking.
What we want is a Word
which we haven’t yet heard –
so till then I’ll just drink about drinking.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never
Rises from the soul, and sways
The heart of every single hearer,
With deepest power, in simple ways.
You’ll sit forever, gluing things together,
Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps,
Blowing on a miserable fire,
Made from your heap of dying ash.
Let apes and children praise your art,
If their admiration’s to your taste,
But you’ll never speak from heart to heart,
Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
Far, far afield--the averages of distances
are sought after.
Seer, hearer, feeler likened to what feet
fail now...as a body parodies its mind
unknowingly.
This chased relationship... headless chicken's
nocturne.
Konstantinos Mark
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
Heart-affluence in discursive talk
From household fountains never dry;
The critic clearness of an eye,
That saw thro' all the Muses' walk;
Seraphic intellect and force
To seize and throw the doubts of man;
Impassion'd logic, which outran
The hearer in its fiery course;
High nature amorous of the good,
But touch'd with no ascetic gloom;
And passion pure in snowy bloom
Thro' all the years of April blood;
A love of freedom rarely felt,
Of freedom in her regal seat
Of England; not the schoolboy heat,
The blind hysterics of the Celt;
And manhood fused with female grace
In such a sort, the child would twine
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine,
And find his comfort in thy face;
All these have been, and thee mine eyes
Have look'd on: if they look'd in vain,
My shame is greater who remain,
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise.
1k
The crazy man seems to hate his mind.
The Zen man loves his mind.
The crazy man doesn't know, and is confused about it.
The Zen man doesn't know.
The crazy man laughs and says, "It's an imperfectly perfect world!".
The Zen man laughs and says the same thing.
The crazy man is unhappy with his life.
The Zen man is happy with his life, most of the time.
The crazy man hears voices.
The Zen man is a voice-hearer.
I know about this
because I have been
both.
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 11:58 PM UTC
If your outer appearance change
Your kisses will stay the same
As you grow old and get closer to the Lord..
Your growth in him, makes me love you even more..
As I think of times before..
When they use blades..
For you I would take a sword..
Present day take a bullet die for you..
Like Christ..
For him I die and live..for you I live and die..
I am a living sacrifice..
You are my wife..
Show the lost the Godly context of marriage..
What Gods love looks like..
If they disrespect you they disrespect me..
Blood of my blood . flesh of my flesh..
Confused because I treat you better than me..
God first ..wife second..God puts everything else in perspective
In its place
Look at yours as I seek his face..
He knows best..
As I write this I know you can feel this in your chest..
Its spiritual the way we connect..
Connected to the vine.
Branches of the same tree...
So when the wind of the Holy Spirit moves we both feel the breeze..
I should propose to you daily and drop to one knee..
Make every effort to keep this fresh..
Like that fire that consumes and purifies the flesh..
Passionately love like I am about to take my last breath..
Passion felt nights..
Compassion as I wipe the tears from your sight..
The tears I miss God catches them..
Thrive for the mark my life reflecting him
You see my heart for those who are rejecting him..
So I am a hearer of the word..
The Holy Spirit in obedience have me do what I do..
Love but reject the world
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
This drop in the ocean
I want to put into words,
Hope the wind will listen
As it carries them to the sky…
My silent prayer, only the heart can utter
For the events can’t be undone
Even a miracle can’t turn them around
You have moved on, and have given your heart
To someone not me, she could be your ‘one’
I want to wish you well…
And pray that you be happy…
But this silent prayer contradicts the message.
You cannot be happier, not when it’s not with me.
It’s selfish, I know.. Hence the silence
But this silent prayer, is my only friend
In deaf ears may fall and work in your favor.
I’d still want to whisper and hope you’ll realize..
That in her arms, you will still remember me
And in her laugh, it’s my face you see…
I say you look good together…
Tell everyone, you are better off with her.
Your dreams will come true; with her there are no barricades
But hypocrisy is my craft, you don’t have to know
That in my silent prayer, I am your loving traitor
Betraying the joy you want, wanting that joy to be with me
In silent prayer I can be selfish, envious and jealous
That in someone else’s love, you found solace.
My Hearer may just understand, I hope He will
Or punishment I’ll bear for as long as my heart longs
For you…the one person
My silent prayer’s only subject.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
upon approach he sees a man
with beard of grey and leathered tan
who says come here
and have no fear
i am a mere forsaken man
i am a carter of the wood
whose lived much longer than he should
i travel far
through lands bizarre
by wound and scar i understood
to this the boy a greeting gave
my name is Will and I am brave
it is your whim
should i come in
by discipline i will behave
this made the carter stop and think
he did not breathe he did not blink
two thoughts collide
and then divide
and so decide to cross the brink
since it is cold and wet about
and my fire far from dying out
come sit a spell
and warm ye well
and i will tell a tale of doubt
well to approve the boy does grin
up to the flame to warm his skin
without delay
he does obey
as if to say you can begin
the carter looks about the trail
in hopes to capture each detail
his egos fight
this is not right
and yet, despite, he tells the tale
i’ve traveled all the trails I care
and seen more than I think is fair
i’m growing old
my stories told
but i withhold this that i share
this is a story wrong and true
my time has come to tell it too
its with a sigh
that i must die
as soon as i tell it to you
there is a curse within the tale
the telling of which will unveil
a creature foul
of horrid howl
he’s on the prowl and will not fail
for he comes after those who tell
the tale that always will compel
the hearer who
must tell it too
but when you do he’ll know it well
you see this tale it has been told
by many men of ages old
and they like I
did question why
yet did comply as it is told
so please forgive my desperate soul
impending doom does take its toll
to fate be true
i can but do
one day so you will know its hold
at this the boy did squirm a bit
up to the flame to turn his spit
it’s just a tale
and somewhat stale
sir you will fail to get my wit
it is a tale, yes that is true
but cast no doubt on what i do
undone by hate
I meet my fate
so shall he wait one day for you
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
I am in limbo.
I have this feeling in my bones
that my time will soon end
impending doom
that this happiness is not infinite.
But i relish right now
in the feeling that i am still hearer
he is still here
and the moments are precious while they last
and they become relics when they are over
which is why I need to remember
more than ever
the way it felt
the words that escaped this mouth.
the way the lake glistened
the sound of birds
and sweltering heat
sitting on a picnic table on a small island.
How finite it seemed at the time.
rejection
but with the usual overthinking
i found
hope
in that sense of
"it's not you it's me"
that he proposed.
He finally noticed his shadow
and told her the truth
that she already knew.
that I already knew≥
He is too selfish
too independent.
yet still she feeds the fire
of his ego
and holds on to the hope
that the credits won't transfer
when he comes back
he will be stuck in the web
with she
with
her
with I
withme.
and this is my salvation
this is my hope.
because no matter how dangerous and painful love may be
you can only run for so long.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
Painful lack of words
writing becomes much too hard
where have our poems gone.
Words written in haste
now make very little sense
without any flow.
They are no longer
as a body without breath
alive for others.
Emptiness resides
in a heart without feeling
our words have no life.
Those words without life
failing to bless a hearer
become of no use.
Why do we ignore
inspiration from nature
our muse is asleep.
Once it awakens
words return to the living
joy comes to our hearts.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
these streets doo ***
with houses stained
rich by the rising sun
and you should see the
Corinthians, columns and
fences and blades of
grass; palm old money
shaded by forked
voodoo trees that
creep and hue the
streets cool,
trees with roots
and brown skin
that grooves and
deepens, hearer of
that Mississipi
hymn that spoke
of wading and water
but god there is
no water
in Uptown.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
Painful lack of words
writing becomes much too hard
where have our poems gone.
Words written in haste
now make very little sense
without any flow.
They are no longer
as a body without breath
alive for others.
Emptiness resides
in a heart without feeling
our words have no life.
Those words without life
failing to bless a hearer
become of no use.
Why do we ignore
inspiration from nature
our muse is asleep.
Once it awakens
words return to the living
joy comes to our hearts.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
Just once, I saw your face at the blue moon hearer.
Your Hazel Eyes glistened with desire like burner.
But, your thick hanging lips were trembling feebler.
Unexpectedly, you appeared before my eyes in the lunatic night.
Your tall body was filled with youthful zest.
But, your hands were too week to catch the hazard.
Your pale face was lighted by moon and shine coldly.
But in the meantime, I'm feeling your breath of life brightly.
Such imbalanced existence burned into my mind deeply.
So, that was U.
Now, the golden autumn wind begins to blow, the colored leaves swirled.
At the small Spanish café., I Just listen to the autumn sound. Wind are blowing drearily out side.
And, I am thinking about you. Oh, my dear.
How can I forget your eyes full of wistful ? They showed me your lonely soul.
'Cause you cannot get acclimatized at any country like me, no?
I know we cannot acquaint with each other no more. But I can't give you up.
I know we cannot converse with each other no more. But I can't stop look you up.
I miss you. I am missing you...
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
faux pas...gramophone flowers
spur onward the tramping
boisterousness.
the Mansion whose stuttering
rooms bear an ***** each
for their elephant.
reconnaissance of voice
vibrates the fateful lifeline...
an exegesis unto chosen hearer.
hear me...hear we.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
Some stories come with songs,
some waltz in a lone, strange peace,
with surface tension
signaling
something jes'wentwright, mmhmm
wrought by god,
twang taut copper wire whisting
twing crash
shards of ceramic insulation, change
of situation
- we were running stone to stone
suddenly,
the girl, it was a girl, kicked a stone
she oughta stepped on and moved on,
but
she stepped out of line, so now,
she limps,
no need for me to tell her, once more,
there is always a place to put your foot,
- too long the blame, how long the shame?
a messenger on the barefoot road knows,
some songs are for the journey joy,
some are for home come joy,
some are for always joy.
some are for once.
For me.
It ain't easy. But there's plants. Listen.
Listen,
as a mortal message, Hear this,
does not remove the power
in the word, read.
gulpunctuated inequilibrium'n al alaq
don't choke
this is no joke…
Had the most famous hearer of that message,
"READ"
obeyed, what a wonderfilled world might this be,
eh, Satchmo?
watchawatcha wa wah
shooobeepshaboom shake it all shake it all
whata wonder full world we see….
see the shelter fade… words as ash remain,
to remind me of the wrightminder
just burned on this point.
For a story that wished to be poetry, just once
more.
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 9:30 PM UTC